


Human After All

by kandyblood



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Christ, First Kiss, Five Orange Pips, Friendship/Love, Look at all these tags, M/M, Minor OC - Freeform, Moriarty being diabolical, Sherlock Being an Idiot, and kind of dense, i need to stop, it's complicated - Freeform, shamelessly stolen dialogue, sorry gatiss, sort of, they are super cute, wizarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kandyblood/pseuds/kandyblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are in their last year at Hogwarts; Sherlock has long realized that he is maybe a few spells shy of platonic in regards to his best friend, but a cunning and unrelenting adversary has them on their toes at all times.</p><p>And Sherlock Holmes is many, many things, but 'good at feelings' is not one of them. It's going to be a long year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Been A While

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whovenclawholmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovenclawholmes/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John meet back up again after a long summer away. They're happy, to say the least, even if Sherlock does get teased a little.

John and Sherlock had been friends since they met. At least, that’s how John saw it. Sherlock was a little more reluctant (“I don’t have friends” was one of his favorite phrases) but John knew that deep down, Sherlock cared about him.

He practically jumped onboard the Hogwarts Express as soon as he arrived at Platform 9 ¾, unable to wait to see Sherlock again. His Slytherin friend, was, as usual, one of the first students on the train. John quickly found him and settled into a seat.

“Hello John,” Sherlock murmured, not taking his eyes off the book in front of him.

“Hey Sherlock. What’re you reading?”

“A Muggle book about evolution. It’s quite fascinating.”

“Excellent. Enjoy your summer?”

“No, Mycroft was there,” Sherlock sneered, curling his lip in distaste and bringing up his head to give John a once-over. “No girlfriend this summer? Good job, John, I admire your restraint. New dog. Your sister hasn’t broken up with her girlfriend yet, unfortunately. Never liked that Clara, she’s always getting in the way of my cases. You’ve been playing rugby- isn’t that a little mundane for you? And all your homework is done. So, overall, you had a pleasant, productive summer and managed to get a rather dark tan as well. Swimming perhaps?”

“Yeah, the neighborhood pool needed people for the swim team. You’re completely brilliant, honestly.”

Sherlock offered him a small smile (more like a twitch of his lips, really) and turned his attention back to his book. “And you never cease to amaze me with your utter predictability."

John just smiled good-naturedly and sat back as the train rolled out of the station. They spent the next two or three hours in companionable silence, as they usually did, only speaking to obtain inordinate amounts of food from the trolley. Sherlock nibbled his way through a half dozen chocolate frogs, and John devoured a few cauldron cakes with the voraciousness that only a seventeen-year-old boy can have.

“You didn’t go outside at all this summer, did you Sherlock?” John asked (or stated, really, since he already knew the answer) as they neared the now-familiar cottage that acted as a landmark for Hogwarts students. In the dying light of the sunset, the rough cobblestones cast soft shadows on the walls of the ancient little house. John smiled at it, knowing Hogwarts was only an hour away.

“Outside? Outside is boring, I had far too many experiments going to bother with going outside,” Sherlock scoffed, setting aside his book and lazily propping his feet up on John’s knee. “That Muggle chemistry set you got me was incredibly useful, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. I had a grand time explaining to my mum about the charmed jumpers. She wasn’t amused, especially about the screaming one.”

Sherlock chuckled softly. “That one’s my favorite.”

“It would be, wouldn’t it?”

“Mm.”

John contemplated Sherlock for a bit, raking his eyes over the soft black curls, the piercing silver eyes, the cheekbones that should have been illegal, the Cupid’s bow lips, and the long, slender fingers that were steepled in thought against them. John lazily realized how attractive Sherlock was, but he mentally shrugged it away. Friends were allowed to think other friends were pretty.

“John.”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

John snapped his attention to Sherlock, detecting an odd tone in his voice that would be imperceptible to anyone else. “Of course.”

“Why haven’t you been dating anyone recently? It used to be girls right and left, and now…you haven’t even taken an interest in anyone since January seventeenth of last school year.”

“How do you know I didn’t take an interest in anyone over the summer, even if I didn’t end up dating them?”

“Because you would have dated them. No one just turns you down, you’re far too good-looking and social for anyone to do that,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as though John’s the biggest idiot he’d ever met. “Honestly, you do have a brain, don’t you?”

“Shush, you know that I do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to stand me.” John had to hide a smile. Even when Sherlock was giving compliments, he couldn’t help but throw in an insult.

“Correct. Answer my question.”

“Dunno. When the right person comes along, I’ll know, I guess. I think I realized that I was sort of wasting my time with all those girls who meant nothing to me.”

“You said ‘the right person.’ Not ‘the right girl,’” Sherlock observed sharply, tilting his head to study John curiously.

“I suppose I did,” John said thoughtfully. “I guess I’m not averse to a relationship with a bloke. I’ve just never tried it, I guess.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock sounded like he was gathering data, as per usual. John could practically see him filing away the information.

“Why do you care, anyway?”

“I don’t.”

John smirked, hearing the unspoken words behind Sherlock’s response. “I thought you didn’t have friends.”

“I don’t. Just one,” Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms and staring out the window. John grinned and gently tapped Sherlock’s foot.

“Let me up, I have to change.”

“Changing is boring.”

“I’m boring. Up.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and put his feet down on the seat next to John. The shorter boy got up and unlocked his trunk, taking out his folded clothes and setting them on the seat as he stripped off his shirt and pulled on the Hogwarts vest. Sherlock watched him, feeling his cheeks get a little warm. He quickly jerked his head to the side and looked out the window, willing the blush away from his face. John sat back down.

“Hey, am I going to have to give you all my notes at the last second for the NEWTs like I did for the OWLs?”

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t you add a room or something in your mind palace for schoolwork?”

“Don’t be dull, John. I have far more important things on my mind than grades.” Sherlock finally looked John in the eye, exasperated.

“Of course you do. You have to change into your robes sometime, you know,” he said amiably.

“I suppose.” Sherlock didn’t make any move to get up.

“Now, Sherlock.”

“Very well. If only to quiet your incessant whining.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock rose, his dark curls brushing the luggage rack above their heads. He pulled down his trunk and rummaged through it, finally extracting his wrinkled Hogwarts robes and throwing them on the seat next to him.

“Honestly, do you fold anything?”

“No. That’s Mrs. Hudson’s job.”

John grinned and pitched his voice higher in a creepily accurate impression of the old woman. “She’s not your housekeeper, dear.”

Sherlock awarded John with a genuine laugh, his deep voice rumbling through the compartment. “Turn around.”

“We’re all men here, Sherlock.”

“I said turn around.” Sherlock still sounded amused, but John could tell he was serious.

“Fine, I’m not looking.” John turned his head towards the window, holding a hand over his eyes.

Sherlock glanced over to make sure that John really wasn’t looking and changed as quickly as he could, straightening his tie and sitting back down.

“There.”

John took his hands away, looking at Sherlock amusedly. “What was that?”

“That was privacy,” The pale boy answered haughtily. “Perhaps you’re unaware.”

John rolled his eyes and dug through his bag again, searching for his maroon and gold tie. “If anything, you’re the one who’s unaware of privacy. I’m not even sure you know what personal space is.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I know what personal space is. I invade yours, don’t I?”

John laughed. “Too often.”

The compartment door slid open and they both looked up, Sherlock taking his feet down from their position on John’s knee.

“Anderson, Donovan,” John said civilly, nodding at them.

“Hey, Freak. Having a nice time invading some personal space?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, do you have anything better to do than eavesdrop on conversations between friends?”

Donovan gave a short, nasty laugh. “Yeah, like you have friends.”

John smiled pleasantly. “Well, I am sitting right here."

Donovan shook her head. “Please. We all know you just want to get into his pants.”

Sherlock actually laughed. “Oh, that was mature. Besides, we all know John’s not gay.”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “Sure."

“Don’t talk out loud, Anderson. You lower the IQ of the entire train.”

Anderson spluttered angrily, slamming the compartment door shut and walking off with Donovan in a huff. John burst out laughing.

“’We all know John’s not gay?’ Seriously?”

Sherlock smirked and examined a chocolate frog card. “Yes, seriously.”

“You’re mad,” John laughed, shaking his head.

“So I’ve been told.” Sherlock stood up and offered John a hand. “We’re nearly there.”

“I know, Sherlock. The train’s slowing down.”

“Yes, of course it is, John, don’t be daft.”

John sighed and took Sherlock’s hand, pulling himself to his feet. “Thanks.”

Sherlock said nothing, just tugged on John’s hand as he impatiently lead him into the throngs of people in the corridor. The shorter of the two sighed and let Sherlock drag him along until they found themselves directly in front of a door. The train lurched to a stop, the soft glow of the lanterns on the platform seeping through the glass of the window.

“You’re a beanpole, how on Earth do you manage to make everyone move aside for you?”

Sherlock smirked down at him. “It’s a natural talent of mine.”

John rolled his eyes as he was yanked about once again, this time onto the platform as the doors finally opened. He sighed with contentment as he breathed the familiar Scottish air, feeling at home after the long, stressful summer with his utter mess of a family. Before he even registered what was happening, Sherlock had shoved him into one of the carriages. The thestrals pawed at the ground and went tearing off, jolting their passengers every way imaginable. John was not sorry to climb out when the maniac vehicle pulled up at the base of Hogwarts’ (frankly quite impressive) staircase. He and Sherlock practically sprinted inside, grateful for the warmth the castle had to offer.

“Must I sit at the Slytherin table? They’re all boorish fools with no brains and too much ambition.”

“I know, you complain my ear off about them every chance you get. Just for tonight, I promise.”

“Please, John? It’s our last year,” Sherlock asked, giving John his best convincing look. John looked up at him for a moment, his resolve crumbling.

“Oh, what the hell. But you’re answering all of the questions we get from the firsties, got it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said triumphantly, sweeping over to Gryffindor table. He hadn’t exactly endeared himself to the maroon-and-gold clad students, but if their Quidditch captain was okay with the lanky Slytherin, so were they. Stanley Hopkins and their mutual acquaintance, Billy, slid aside on the bench to make room for the two of them. Hopkins greeted Sherlock eagerly; he had long been attempting to develop the deductive skills the taller boy possessed, but was frankly not smart enough to even come close. As Sherlock had put it, ‘he has the logic capacity of a walnut, John. A butterfly could solve a case faster than him.’

Sherlock sighed and slid over on the bench, making room for John between himself and the annoyingly persistent ginger. Billy gave him a smile, which he didn’t bother to return. He turned around and watched the Sorting, his bored mask betraying no emotion. John knew he just wanted it to end so they could talk freely. When the last kid (Zimmerman, David) was sorted into Hufflepuff, Sherlock sighed in relief. He tapped his foot through McGonagall’s announcements.

“Oh thank god, I thought that would never end.”

“It’s the Sorting, Sherlock. It happens every year.”

“Yes, and every year it’s increasingly more dull.”

“Shut up and eat something, you prat.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sulked, plucking a roll from the basket and gnawing on it half-heartedly. John loaded his own plate with food and started talking to the Gryffindors around him. Sherlock let his mind wander as the soft, warm lilt of conversation and the sensation of John at his side enveloped him. He had lied to John on the train; his summer had been terrible, but not because of Mycroft. Well, partly because of Mycroft. But mostly because he couldn’t see John. Letters just weren’t the same as actually being near him. Sherlock sighed and scooted closer to his friend. Already he could feel the boredom melting away.

He turned his head to study John. It wasn’t like he wasn’t aware that he was attracted to the younger boy. In fact, he was very much aware; he had been for a year or so now, but he didn’t say anything. He valued John’s friendship far too much. As long as he had the camaraderie that they shared at the present, though, it was enough. John must have been aware of his staring, because he turned around with an amused smirk.

“You alright there, Sherlock? We’ve been here half an hour and already you’re thinking too hard."

The table around them erupted in good-natured giggles and John grinned. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Please, John. You know I can’t just wave a magic wand and make my mind stop.” His gray eyes twinkled in amusement at the irony of his own joke.

John laughed his deep, warm laugh that made the whole room brighter. “It’s funny because you’re only half-joking.”

Sherlock smiled and returned to his roll, picking at the crust. Billy nudged him slightly, a knowing smile on his face. “You’re head over heels, mate.”

“No.”

“Don’t argue, I know you are.”

Sherlock snorted dismissively. “I am not 'head over heels,' as you put it. Romance is far down on my list of priorities.”

“Please. You’re totally in love.”

“I am not."

“Whatever, Holmes.”

Sherlock didn’t even dignify that with a response, instead opting to turn up his nose at Billy and focus on John instead. Okay, so maybe he liked him. A little. But he was certainly not head over heels. What did Billy know, anyway? Nothing, that’s what.

Great, now his mood was completely ruined. He huffed exasperatedly and reached for a Peppermint Humbug. Sentiment. Pff. Like he would be in love. That was for normal people like John.

He was roused from his brooding by John. “Eat this.”

Sherlock eyed the tart on his plate suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because you need food, Sherlock. I know you’re body’s just a vessel, but your mind does actually need something to carry it around,” John coaxed him gently.

“Fine. But only because I’m feeling nice.”

“Well, thank you for gracing us with your superb capacity for kindness.”

“You’re most welcome, John.”

He smiled at the good-natured, long-suffering sigh John gave him and ate a bite of the tart. He had to admit, eating wasn’t as much of a hardship as he made it out to be.

Really, his complaints were just to annoy John.

Hopkins leaned over the table, looking down the row at Sherlock past John. “So, Sherlock-”

“No.”

John poked him sharply in the ribs with a look that said, I know he’s annoying, but throw him some scraps and try to be civil, will you? Sherlock rolled his eyes (it was a good thing he didn’t have to wear contacts, because if he did they’d be long lost by now) and turned back to Stanley.

“Yes, sorry, what?” The impatience in his voice was barely concealed; it was apparently enough for John, however, given the distinct lack of rib-poking.

“Have you had any cases over the summer? I helped my dad with one, he’s an Auror. He said I did great,” he boasted, puffing out his chest. It was all Sherlock could do to bite down on the stinging comment he had been forming.

“I had a few,” he answered shortly. “What was yours?”

“Well, there was this Muggle bloke who they thought had been murdered by a wizard, but it turns out it was poison. I saw the yellowish tinge on his lips and knew right away what happened.”

Sherlock leaned down slightly to breathe in John’s ear. “It wasn’t poison. His father was just humoring him.”

John had to fight his down his chuckle. Hopkins looked at Sherlock eagerly for approval. Sherlock nodded and turned back to his tart. I threw him some scraps and didn’t correct him, the complete idiot. I probably deserve a medal, he thought rather pompously to himself. John caught his expression and looked amused, but didn’t say anything.

Finally, they were dismissed and everyone went to their common rooms. John gasped and fished a pin out of his pocket.

“Cor, I forgot, I’m Head Boy.”

“You forgot that you were Head Boy, John? Doesn’t that say something about whether or not you really deserve-”

John cut him off by impatiently waving a hand in his face as he pinned the badge on.

“Sorry, Sherlock. Gotta run. See you in the morning, yeah?”

“Yes. Goodbye.”

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the stone wall of the corridor as John went to guide the first years, a friendly smile on his face.

He didn’t know how much longer he could take this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a late birthday present for whovenclaw-holmes. I expect it'll be about 5 chapters long when it's finished. Thanks for reading, and I really do love comments! (Seriously guys, I want to know how I did here. Please.)
> 
> ~kandyblood


	2. It's Not Too Late (Yet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This just got serious. Sherlock and John get a case, and Sherlock's struggling with it. His solution is...well, a little questionable.  
> But hey, he's Sherlock.

"John!"

The boy in question barely had time to turn around before Sherlock's gangly figure collided with his own. They both went sprawling on the ground, much to the amusement of their classmates. Sherlock didn't even bother to pick himself up off his friend as he waved a letter under his nose.

"We have a case!"

John smiled and gently pushed on Sherlock's shoulders. "Let me up."

He complied, eagerly scrambling to his feet and shoving the letter at John again. "Read it, read it!"

"I'm reading it, Sherlock, calm down." He unfolded the parchment, revealing a letter in a heavy-handed, messy scrawl. It sort of reminded him of Sherlock, in a way.

To Sherlock Holmes and John Watson-

As I'm sure you are aware, you are known all over…well…everywhere, for your brilliant crime-solving skills. I realize that you are easily bored, Sherlock, but I think this will be of interest to you.

I am being stalked by a person who has no identity, but I can't tell what they want. I can't perform any handwriting analysis, quill analysis, parchment analysis- nothing. Trust me, I'm rather clever, and I cannot for the life of me figure out where this person came from or what their intent is. I have three letters that are in cipher so far, all carefully written in neutral print and plain black ink, and I'd be very glad if you could investigate them for me. Each one has included orange seeds. The first had five, the second four- I'm sure you get the idea. I fear something unfortunate will happen if I don't sort this out before the fifth letter arrives. Please meet me in the Room of Requirement at 6 tonight. I assume you know where it is, but if not, it's across the corridor from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy on the seventh floor. Just focus on feeling the need for privacy and go inside. I'll be waiting with the letters and any other evidence that might be remotely relevant. Thanks if you're considering. If not, screw you and I guess I'll figure it out on my own.

Yours,

Rhianne

John looked up at Sherlock amusedly. "Well, it does sound intriguing. Got any ideas about who it could be?"

"So far? Nine." Sherlock grinned, looking high with excitement. Or drugs; sometimes it was hard to tell.

John shook his head and handed him back the letter. "And what are your deductions about our client?"

"She's a Ravenclaw, sixth or seventh year- actually is quite clever, not just bragging. Dabbles in writing in her free time, Muggle-born, confident in herself but slightly wary of others. Bullied, probably, but too independent to let it affect her now. She really did try to sort it out, this is her last resort. Also, she has anxiety issues."

"How on Earth could you know all that from a letter?"

"Ravenclaw because of her self-confidence in her mental capacity- no other House really has quite the same attitude about it. Sixth or seventh year because she can describe the Room of Requirement so well- used it six or seven times, but is too clever to use it often. So she's been at the school for a while. Clever people often have horrid handwriting because they're trying to rush through and get all their thoughts out on paper before they disappear. I know the feeling, and it's supported by her being in Ravenclaw. Muggle-born is a hunch, but only because she thought to evaluate the handwriting. Most wizards would just use a spell, but that's not the first thing that occurred to her. Confident, obviously, her description of her own cleverness and her bit at the end with the 'I guess I'll figure it out myself.' Wary because of the lovely little 'screw you' and the approach about my boredom getting in my way-she doesn't think I'll take the case because she doesn't trust anyone but herself. Why is she wary? Bullied, of course. But she wasn't afraid of us ridiculing her for asking for help, so she's no longer affected by it. If she's really as clever and mistrustful of other people as I think she is, she tried to figure it out but was finally forced to do this, regardless of her doubts. So, last resort. And anxiety issues because there's a spot-just there, see it?- that smells of St. John's Wart. Tea, a powerful herbal remedy for her anxiety, not to mention her slight paranoia about this whole event," Sherlock rattled off, leaving himself slightly breathless at the end.

"That's-that's incredible," John breathed in amazement.

"Please, John. I do this all the time."

"Never gets any less brilliant, though," John remarked, folding the letter and putting it carefully in his bag.

Sherlock used his momentary distraction to smile to himself at the praise before reverting to his emotionless default face.

"The letter was addressed to both of us. She obviously doesn't underestimate your value in solving cases. Are you coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Excellent," Sherlock grinned, giving John a brief, uncharacteristic half-hug around his shoulders before sweeping off, his robes flaring dramatically behind him.

A short girl with her hair tied into a ponytail smiled and walked up to John. "He really likes you, you know."

John looked down in surprise. "I dunno Molly. I'm not even sure he's capable of really liking anyone."

"I think you would be surprised. He's not a sociopath, not really."

"I know that. I just think he doesn't want to like anyone."

"You're a lucky man, John Watson. I wouldn't give this up if I were you," she said softly, touching his arm and smiling before walking away in a flash of yellow and black.

John looked after her, dazedly touching his arm where she touched him and then his shoulder where Sherlock had hugged him.

This was definitely worth some thought, but after class.

He sighed and walked into Transfiguration, still lost in thought despite his resolution to wait until after class. Professor Magles entered carrying a large box of what were apparently various articles of clothing, rapping his desk as she walked past. John snapped to attention.

"Decided to give you a little break from human transfiguration. Today we're going to be turning various items of clothing into other items of clothing. You're seventh years- I'm sure you can do something creative with it."

The class was a blur, John hanging on the edge of his seat in anticipation of dinner. He vaguely registered someone giving him a compliment about the trainers he managed to transfigure into a deerstalker hat, but he really wasn't listening.

The bell couldn't have rung soon enough.

He leapt out of his chair as soon as it went off, scooping up his bag and tucking his wand in his pocket. He was the first one out of the classroom, expertly dodging the masses that filled the hallway as everyone made their way to dinner.

Suddenly, someone caught his arm on the way past. John looked back impatiently, ready to brush them off, but was affronted with the sly face of a Slytherin boy.

"Hello, John."

"Erm. Hi. I really have somewhere to be, so…" He made a not-so-subtle attempt to escape.

"I'm Jim. I just thought you should know, before you go running back to your little Sherlock…" He glanced around conspiratorially and then grinned at John, lowering his voice to a singsong whisper. "I wouldn't get too tangled up in this game if I were you."

John looked him up and down suspiciously before wrenching his arm out of Jim's grasp. "Look, I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I really don't think that what Sherlock and I do is any of your business. I have to get to dinner."

He turned on his heel and walked off, keeping his gait steady and his back straight so Jim couldn't see how perturbed he really was.

"Don't be stupid, John. It's hardly fitting for Sherlock's little toy to be so dim," he heard behind him, still in that singsong voice that put his teeth on edge. It was what he imagined a psychopath would sound like.

/

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John, sit down, I was just about to ask you-"

"Sherlock, there's someone who knows about the Rhianne case."

Silver eyes snapped up to meet his blue ones, no longer focused on the skull sitting atop the table. "I exercised utmost caution."

"I don't…" John swallowed and sat down. "I don't think this has anything to do with your cautiousness. I think he would have found out if you kept this case in bloody Fort Knox."

"Who?"

"Jim. Slytherin, I think he's our year."

Sherlock's lip curled in distaste. "Jim Moriarty. I know him. Definite psychopath, dangerously clever. Almost as clever as I am."

"Yeah, well, he warned me not to 'get tangled up in this game.' We need to be careful."

Sherlock pressed his palms together, prayer-like, and settled them under his chin. "Yes, I know. Thank you for alerting me. We will watch our step with caution on this case."

"Good."

John glanced at the food, suddenly famished, and helped himself to pasta. Sherlock was still lost in thought; John knew from experience that a thinking Sherlock is a Sherlock that's unwise to interrupt. He put a helping of food on his plate anyway, in case the Slytherin actually paid enough attention to eat it. He wasn't hopeful.

/

Sherlock met John in front of the portrait hole to Gryffindor common room, opening it from the outside so his friend could slip out. Honestly, it was ridiculously easy to guess the password. 'Doxy fingers.' How predictable.

He placed an invisibility charm on both of them and off they went, making their way to the seventh floor. Sherlock stood in front of the hidden entrance to the Room of Requirement and closed his eyes, concentrating fiercely on the need for privacy. It took less than five seconds for the door to appear and for Sherlock and John to slip inside, Sherlock whispering a 'finite incantatem' to make them visible once again.

The room was cozy, with a flickering fireplace at one end and a few armchairs alongside it. A thick rug and several (quite tasteful) paintings were the only decorations. A girl stood up from one of the armchairs, walking over and offering them a handshake.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Thanks for coming, really, I appreciate it."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over her, taking it in. Short brown hair, glasses that made her slightly round face look more mature. Used to be on the chubby side but lost the weight a while ago. Open, friendly features; he was inexplicably reminded of John. Her voice was a little deep but feminine all the same. Her hazel eyes studied Sherlock in the same way as he was studying her. He felt strangely exposed.

John took her up on the handshake. "We're glad to help. Do you have the letters?"

"Yes. Come sit down."

She led them over to the armchairs and they both sat down. Sherlock was still watching her with mild interest.

"Here are the letters, and the seeds. I also did my best not to damage the seals on the letters. A quill I found that matched the one used to write these, and the ink. Both can be bought in any Wizarding shop."

Sherlock hungrily took the evidence, each one in its own sealed bag to preserve it. He had to admit, he was impressed. Not only did she know how to handle the evidence, but she got right to the point. Definitely qualities he could admire.

He vaguely registered John talking as he pawed through the collected objects.

"So when did the first letter arrive?"

"September 29."

"And the second?"

"November 3. The third was today."

"So each are four days apart. Doesn't leave us much time."

"No, it doesn't. You can see why I need your help."

"Of course."

"What's your fee?"

Sherlock looked up, grinning. "No fee. I should be paying you, this is brilliant."

Rhianne raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"

"Yes, oh this is perfect. I could kiss you!"

She looked amused. "Save it for John."

Sherlock didn't even respond, just rubbed his hands together in delight. John went faintly scarlet but quickly recovered.

"Let's see…this is a rather simple cipher, the key is right under our noses, I'm sure of it. Seeds? No, too obvious. Not enough letters. Orange? Maybe. Hand me a piece of parchment and a quill, John."

John sighed and handed him the required items. Sherlock scribbled on the paper, eyes alight. Finally he looked at the letter. "Let's see…"

John glanced over at his paper.

ORANGE

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

O R A N G E B C D F H I J K L M P Q S T U V W X Y Z

"R…F…J…no, that's not right."

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. Rhianne and John peered at the cipher he had written on his page.

"Well, the key probably changes every time," John said after a while. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he gasped. "Oh, John! You're brilliant!"

FIVEORANGESEEDS

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

F I V E O R A N G S D B C H J K L M P Q T U W X Y Z

"T…O...R…H…I…A…N… yes, oh, John, I love you!"

John went rather red and cleared his throat, but Sherlock was wrapped up in deciphering the message.

To Rhianne-

I'm sure you are aware of several incidents of magic that you have used outside of school, which were ignored under…questionable circumstances. If you want this to stay under wraps, I would do the following.

You will provide for me information on all movements and habits of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Please do be clever about it, I absolutely loathe ordinary people.

Love from M.

Sherlock looked at Rhianne sharply. "Incidents?"

"I had trouble controlling myself when I was younger," she said with a rueful smile.

"I see. Well. It certainly looks as though whoever is threatening you is well-connected."

"Apparently. Can you help?"

"Of course. May I borrow these?"

"Yeah, help yourself."

Sherlock smiled and rubbed his hands together, rising and taking the letters with him.

"This is exactly the thing. Threats? Letters? An anonymous stalker? Brilliant."

John stood as well, giving Rhianne a kind smile. "We'll solve it." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "And seriously, thanks, he's more than a few handfuls when he's bored."

She gave him a wry smile. "Glad I could be of service."

John grinned and softly clapped her on the shoulder before following Sherlock out.

/

"Augh!"

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked resignedly, looking up from his Healing notes.

"I can't figure it out!"

"What?"

"The Rhianne case! It's driving me up the wall!"

Sherlock threw the letter he was holding, which fluttered to the ground. He glared at it with the petulance of a five-year-old who's been denied something important.

Like sweets.

Or a nice murder.

John sighed. "Maybe you need to approach it differently. Find a new perspective."

"From whom?"

"I don't know. We're in a library. Ask the librarian for help, maybe you can find a book."

Sherlock crossed his arms, his knees drawn up to his chin and his lips turned down in a scowl. "That's cheating."

"It's not. Not even you can know everything."

A pale face burrowed deeper into the green and silver scarf that sat around his throat. Finally he unfolded himself from his position on the chair, slinking sullenly to the librarian's desk. He had a terse, irritated conversation with her before stalking off to find a book. He came back with a staggering pile.

"Doing a little light reading, then?"

"John. Not helping," Sherlock growled, flipping open a book rather violently and turning the pages with surprising ferocity.

"Whoa, Sherlock. That book didn't make the case difficult."

"I know!"

"Sh. Library, remember?"

Sherlock just glared at him before returning to his forceful information hunt, stopping every so often to scan a page. The frustration slowly drained out of his features, replaced with slightly milder irritation. Finally he shut the book, having gone through six or seven volumes already, and reverted to his normal thinking pose, his eyes closed and his fingers pressed to his lips. John knew better than to interrupt him, so he continued writing his essay on the pros and cons of using Muggle medical concepts while dealing with Wizarding ailments.

No less than two hours later, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "John."

"Hold on, I have two sentences left."

Surprisingly, Sherlock obeyed and waited till John had set down his quill before launching right into his ramblings. "We need to go on a date."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Well, you need to go on a date and I need to follow you."

"Can I ask why?"

"Certainly."

"Okay, why?"

"Because we need to give the impression that Rhianne is doing as her stalker says, gathering information about us. We'll feed her some things to tell them and she will relay them. I need time, I need data."

"Okay."

"Hopefully it won't be too terrible. For you, that is, given your obvious lack of luck with steady relationships."

"Hey!"

"Well, I'm just saying. You can reel in just about anyone, but keeping hold of them is far more difficult for you."

"Great."

"Yes. Thankfully, this is just a ruse, so you won't have to suffer her long."

"I like her. Maybe we'll even date for real if it goes well."

Sherlock froze for a split second and then appeared to shake himself. "Yes, well. We'll see."

John shrugged and rolled up his essay, capping his ink and putting his materials back in his bag.

"When should I ask her to go on this supposed date?"

"Next Hogsmeade weekend. It's in a week."

"Okay, I'll go ask her then."

"Yes. Good. Fine. I'll return these books."

"Thanks."

"I just don't want to be hovering over your shoulder, it would look suspicious," Sherlock sniffed, lifting his chin.

"Fair enough. See you at dinner, then."

"Yes. Off you go."

John chuckled and shook his head, walking out of the library with his bag in hand. He got halfway down the corridor before realizing he had no conceivable idea of where Rhianne would be. He mentally cursed his lack of foreword planning and resignedly headed up to Ravenclaw tower, figuring he'd work his way down the castle and hope for a stroke of luck. He was mere feet away from the door with the huge eagle knocker when a rolled-up scroll knocked him on the back of the head.

Sherlock's hasty scribble greeted him as he opened it.

She's on the Quidditch pitch. Ravenclaw's having practice today.

John felt a tickle of recognition at that. Come to think of it, he had seen her during games before. She was the Seeker, if he recalled correctly. He had been too busy trying to wrest control of the Quaffle away from her team to really pay any attention to her. He smiled and tucked the parchment into his bag, turning and walking back towards the Great Hall.

She was, indeed, on the Quidditch pitch, hurtling through the air with her teammates. John headed over to the stands and took a seat, watching for a bit. Ravenclaw was formidable, definitely a force to be reckoned with. One of their Beaters was the captain, and she was intense with her training technique. No surprise that they had been in the Championship for ten years running; it must have been habit for the players to be worked this hard.

Of course, the Gryffindor Captain sitting in the stands during a practice session didn't escape the attention of the Ravenclaw team. Their Captain blew her whistle and they all touched down to Earth in a blur of blue and bronze.

"Watson. What are you doing here, I have the pitch booked," Sarah shouted, walking up to him and tucking her bat under her arm. Her whistle hung around her neck, glinting in the late afternoon light.

"I know, I was just waiting for one of your players. No harm meant," he replied easily, a friendly smile spreading across his face.

"Which one?"

"It might be just me, but I think that's none of your business."

Sarah sighed and shook her head, blowing her whistle. "Back in the air, guys." She looked back at John. "Ten minutes, then you're free to do whatever the bloody hell you want."

And with that she took off, yelling orders at her team. She had an attitude that John could admire; she respected her team and gave them positive feedback while still working them to their limits. He filed away a mental note to include it in his own team's training.

Ten minutes later, as promised, the team landed again. Rhianne headed right over to him, calling to one of her friends over her shoulder that she'd be right there.

"Hey John. Got anything?"

"Unfortunately, no. This is more of a social call, I guess."

"Oh?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to go with me to Hogsmeade next weekend."

Rhianne's face broke into a wide smile. "Of course, that would be great. Meet me at the base of the marble staircase on Saturday?"

"It's a date. See you then." John nodded and smiled at her. She grinned back and ran back to her friends, waving at John as she went. He waved back and watched her retreating back, waiting until she was out of sight.

Contrary to popular (Sherlock's) belief, most of his pursuits didn't end so well. He had even gotten knocked upside the head with a rubber chicken once after he asked a girl out from his neighborhood.

He grinned at the memory as he walked back up to the castle; he had been twelve then, and it was a good thing he'd gotten so much better at…social things since then. If he hadn't, Sherlock might have strangled him for being so incompetent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! I feel so proud of myself for getting this done so quickly. This fic is oddly motivating… And I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself. I love ciphers. And Quidditch. Mostly ciphers. Please review and tell me how I did, I'd love to hear your thoughts and feedback!
> 
> ~kandyblood


	3. Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes his feelings, John finds a bag of something suspicious in his bedroom, and Sherlock gets two letters.

Hogsmeade was _boring_. Seriously, who even came up with the idea of this date, anyway? It was _pointless_ and _stupid_ and _nothing was happening_. Sherlock groaned and dropped his head onto his folded arms, feeling very put-upon. Watching John go on dates was like watching paint dry. Progress was slow and excruciating and…

Yeah, this idea was literally the worst thing anyone had ever had the pretentiousness to suggest. Sherlock sighed and lifted his head wearily, considering just going back up to the castle. John could handle himself, and he knew that Rhianne was far from incompetent. And he seemed like he was having a nice enough time. He laughed at something Rhianne had said, throwing back his head. Sherlock felt a pang of some unidentified emotion; usually it was his (largely unintentional) jokes that John laughed at.

Oh.

_Oh_.

Sherlock sat bolt upright, knocking his head on the wall behind him. Some heads turned; a Hogwarts student (a boy no less), alone in Madame Puddifoot’s…well, it was bound to raise some eyebrows in the first place. Sherlock cursed quietly, rubbing his head and wincing. As soon as the other occupants of the shop turned back to their conversations, Sherlock went back to watching John. He was holding Rhianne’s hand now. Sherlock felt vaguely ill and then shook himself; he was _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ , and he did _not_ do emotions.

Except apparently he did, because he was…

Was…

Ugh. _Jealous_.

He shuddered at the thought, choosing to turn away from his view of the Three Broomsticks only to be greeted by an all too familiar face.

“Moriarty,” he said stiffly, his hands clenching around his (dreadfully pink) teacup.

“Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise! Never expected to bump into you here.”

Sherlock curled his lip and resisted the urge to stand up, lest he break something in his haste.

Namely Moriarty’s face.

“I must admit, this is nothing short of a shock for me either.”

“Well, I at least have a date.” The grinning Slytherin gestured behind him at a Hufflepuff girl. John was friends with her…Sarah? No, she’d dated John. Mary? Also dated him… Ah. Molly. He was here with Molly.

“My date has yet to arrive, if you must know,” Sherlock replied haughtily, lifting his chin.

Moriarty grinned even wider (how was that even possible?) and leaned down, his mouth by Sherlock’s ear. “But your date is across the street, aren’t they? And it doesn’t look as though they’ll be joining you.” And with that he straightened up, adjusting his robes as though nothing had just happened. “See you later, darling. _Do_ try to be less predictable.”

Sherlock glared his hardest at the retreating back before him, gritting his teeth. He hoped that bottom feeder got caught on fire, really, he did.

He decided to forego his imminent use of the word ‘ _incendio_ ’ by sweeping dramatically out of the shop. He found his feet drawn towards the Three Broomsticks (towards John) and angrily switched his course so he was storming past it and into Honeydukes. Sherlock forced himself to consider the candy, avoiding all thoughts of Moriarty and John. He was unsuccessful, but at least he had an excuse to think about John. Was it Sugar Quills he liked or Acid Pops?

Maybe it was the chocolate.

Damn it.

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the wall, running his hand through his hair. How does one go about this ‘feelings’ business anyway? He seemed to recall something about flowers. And perhaps sweets as well. Sherlock nodded with finality, scooping up every item he could remember John enjoying.

“I’ll take these.”

“Seven galleons and two Sickles, dear.”

He provided the money and collected his purchases, tucking the bag under his arm as he wandered around Hogsmeade. He made sure to routinely check on John, but it seemed that chatting and drinking Butterbeer was a satisfactory date. Ordinary people were so boring.

Except John wasn’t ordinary, he realized. John was kind and loyal and brave and tough and unmovable and even brilliant sometimes.

Not to mention endlessly fascinating.

Even if Sherlock had chosen a different companion, one that was just as ordinary as John, it occurred to him that he would probably get bored. And yet, here he was, seven years later, and he still didn’t know how his Gryffindor colleague worked. He wanted to know what made him tick, what caused him to laugh and what made him sad and what could make him happy.

Sherlock sighed; maybe the others were right, when they teased him about being… well, perhaps it was a bit much to say _in love_ , but definitely emotionally attached. That sounded good, emotionally attached.

He stopped at a shop and picked up a single red rose.

///

Sherlock sat on John’s bed, his legs crossed and his fingers steepled against his closed lips. John still hadn’t returned, but Sherlock had made sure he got to the castle safely before squirreling himself away in the younger boy’s room. Obviously he was still at dinner, but that left Sherlock with too much time to think. For once in his life, that was a bad thing. Because now that he was focusing on his thoughts, he realized that he was having second ones.

John was bisexual, but he himself had explicitly stated that he liked Rhianne and was considering the possibility of another date. He had never dated anyone of the same gender before. He clearly regarded Sherlock as a friend; certainly a good friend, a close friend, but just a friend nonetheless. He was the Quidditch Captain and Head Boy. Their (purely theoretical) relationship would almost certainly affect his performance and popularity amongst his housemates.

Which brought him back to himself. He knew that John wouldn’t want a relationship beyond what they had at the moment, but did he? He honestly didn’t know. Emotions were difficult; one could conceivably put “love” down to a collection of associations and chemicals that happened within the brain, but for all intents and purposes emotions defied logic, defied definition.

It frustrated him to no end.

Finally he scrubbed his hands over his face, tousling his hair, and pulled out a notebook. At the very least he could record his reactions and impressions; perhaps he could find a pattern. Sherlock fished a quill and some ink out of John’s bag and began scribbling.

_Attractive, kind, brave, not boring_.

Some time and two pages later, an owl interrupted his frantic scrawl. Sherlock sat up sharply, narrowly avoiding flinging ink all over the floor and bed. The owl landed on the end of John’s four-poster, sticking out its leg for Sherlock to receive the letter. The raven-haired Slytherin stared at it intently for a few seconds before moving to take the letter. The owl took off as soon as it had been relieved of its duty.

Sherlock opened the letter.

_My dear- By now you must have realized who it is you’re up against. Please do be careful. I’d hate to have to injure any lions…or should I say dogs? Best get back on track; you really can’t afford any distractions. Love from M x_

He gazed at the letter, vaguely registering the feeling of his heart in his mouth through the cold fear that had begun creeping up his chest. M? Dog? Lion? Distractio- _oh_. How could he have been so _stupid_? It was obvious, much too obvious, practically right there under his nose and he had missed it. How had he missed it?

Of _course_ it was Moriarty. It was Moriarty and he was being _played_ with, tossed around like a mouse that was too blind to see the cat that had it in its claws.

Sherlock capped the ink, wiped off the quill, and threw them both haphazardly back into John’s bag. The notebook snapped closed and a lithe body vaulted itself off the bed, hitting the ground running. He ran through the Gryffindor common room, ignoring the incredulous looks he got, and was taking the stairs two at a time as he flew down to the Great Hall. He had to get to John, had to warn him, had to get him to stay away from Sherlock. He felt his throat close up at the thought; without John he would collapse. Everything he was would come crashing down around his feet like so many fragile Muggle card houses. He would stop functioning.

Oh.

Sherlock skidded to a halt in the corridor, his eyes wide. Of course. Why else would Moriarty send him that letter? To play with him, just as he had been playing with him this whole time. It was almost like a test; if Sherlock blindly followed his instructions, he’d cut himself off from John. Moriarty knew he’d become a shell of his former self, knew that leaving John would destroy him. Sherlock almost laughed; that spider was clever, but he wasn’t clever enough to trick Sherlock Holmes into doing what he wanted. He stood stock still for a second and then turned around, heading towards the dungeons instead. He didn’t have to play this game.

At least not the way Moriarty wanted him to.

///

It was almost bedtime before John realized he hadn’t seen Sherlock since he had left Madame Puddifoot’s to do god knows what. He turned to face his red and gold draped bed, sighing, and noticed the imprint on the duvet. That was odd; John made it a habit to make his bed every morning before the house-elves came, hospital corners and all. He contemplated it for a moment before seeing a bag propped up on the corner. Curious, he picked it up and looked inside. Candy? Who would possibly have put candy beside his bed after sitting on it?

Sherlock.

Of course it had to be Sherlock. He was the only one who could get into Gryffindor common room that wasn’t a Gryffindor, not to mention the fact he had sat on John’s bed. The only person he knew well enough to do that was Sherlock, but that still didn’t explain the candy. Or the rose that accompanied it. Was the candy meant for someone else? Was Sherlock wooing someone for one of his sidetrack cases? Why did he leave the bag here, though? He must have forgotten about it, which wasn’t like Sherlock if he was using it for a case. For social reasons, then? But Sherlock didn’t do social reasons. Ever. John shook his head, utterly confused. So, either Sherlock had left him a bag of candy and a rose (perhaps one of Sherlock’s misconceptions about friendship?) or he had them for a case and took off in a great hurry because of something distracting.

He sighed, running his hands through his hair. Sherlock could be a mystery all by himself, and hell if John knew how to unravel it. Shrugging, he changed into his pajamas and slipped under the covers. He’d figure it out in the morning, after he’d slept.

///

Sherlock was waiting for him at the Gryffindor table, a book propped up on the basket of toast and some sort of putty in his hands. He looked to be concentrating intensely, his fingers manipulating the substance as he stared at the book. John sat down next to him, putting his school bag and the bag of candy on the floor behind the bench.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Sh.”

John rolled his eyes. No use trying to get anything out of him in this state. He patiently ate his breakfast, waiting until Sherlock had finished with whatever he’d been doing. The pale boy finally made a soft sound of satisfaction before placing a perfect model of a sparrow on the table.

“Can I ask what that’s for?”

“I found a charm that will allow this to essentially spy for us.”

“An animation charm? Those are ridiculously advanced, not to mention the precision needed for the model.”

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh, fixing John with his disdainful “I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-deal-with-all-you-horribly-inferior-mortals” look.

“Of _course_ I _know_ that, John. Please keep up. Why else would I need a book? You know that my visual recall is almost one hundred percent accurate. I need a book to make absolutely sure. And I think I can handle a bit of spellwork, don’t you?”

John laughed slightly. “Sorry. Oh, and I brought you something. You left it in my room yesterday.”

Sherlock froze for an instance before taking the bag. “How did you know it was me?”

“I eliminated the impossible. Whatever was left, no matter how improbable, had to be true. You’re the only one that knows me well enough to get into my dorm and then sit on my bed for no apparent reason.”

Sherlock’s face lit up. “Oh, John! You’re learning, well done!”

He grinned at the praise. “But seriously, what were you doing with candy and a rose in my bedroom?”

“Experiment,” Sherlock replied dismissively, brandishing the bag. “Irrelevant now, though.”

“What was it?” “A social experiment. It’s irrelevant though, I told you. Got a letter that rendered it useless. How was the date?”

“Fine. Good. She’s no Holmes, but I can tell you, she’s in Ravenclaw for a reason. I wasn’t bored.”

“You’ll be seeing her again?”

“No, I don’t think so. Unless you need me to for the case.”

“I don’t. I believe we have everything we need now, shouldn’t be too long before we catch him. I have to send a letter.”

“To who?”

“Whom. Jim Moriarty. I’m certain it’s him, we just have to catch him in the act now.”

“Using Rhianne as bait?”

“Of a sort. You’re catching on.” Sherlock flashed him a rare grin and John smiled back, feeling an odd warmth in his chest.

“No one’s going to get hurt though, right?”

“There is a five percent chance that this will fail.”

“Good enough for me. I’ll check with her. What’s the plan?”

///

The plan never happened. In fact, the plan didn’t even get the chance to be expressed because Sherlock got a letter just as he opened his mouth to explain. As soon as he unfolded the parchment and let his eyes flick across the words, he visibly paled and snapped his mouth shut.

“Change of plans. There is no plan. You and Rhianne are to keep yourselves as safe as you possibly can- preferably within sight and earshot of a teacher or a large group of people at all times, even better if it’s in your respective common rooms. Until further notice you are to remain that way, do you understand?”

John raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Yes. If you need backup, you know I’m your second.”

“I know. I doubt I’ll need it, but thank you for offering.”

“Sherlock.” John grabbed his arm, meeting his pale eyes with surprisingly intense dark blue ones. “Don’t get hurt. Don’t do anything stupid. I can’t imagine living without you, okay?”

Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed, and then audibly swallowed. When he finally replied his voice came out a hoarse whisper. “I promise.”

John let go of him, looking relieved. “Good. Glad that’s settled.”

“Yes.”

“Now I have to go to class. See you later, okay?”

“Mm.”

John stood up and walked away, his bag slung over his shoulder as he easily slipped into the crowd.

Sherlock watched him go, the model of a sparrow still sitting on the table next to his hand. Dream-like, he reached out and closed his hand around the little bird. He slowly unfolded himself from his sitting position, grabbed the book and his bag, and walked off towards the seventh floor.

He needed to think before facing Moriarty.

Apropos of absolutely nothing, a small voice that sounded unpleasantly like Mycroft’s whispered at him from a rarely-used room in his mind palace.  _It’s just like Mummy always said, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter than the other two, but I hope it came out all right. Finished it before my birthday, yay! Only two chapters to go after this one. I love writing this and I love how much positive feedback I'm getting. Thank you guys so much! Please keep commenting!
> 
> ~kandyblood


	4. Manipulation

Sherlock stood, all crisp lines and elegance, in the Astronomy Tower as he waited for Moriarty to arrive. It had been more than ten minutes ( _punctuality is a virtue_ , he thought to himself) and there was still no sign. Sherlock exhaled slowly, not quite a sigh, and looked out the window at the night sky. It was cloudy, a few stray wisps blocking the weak moonlight.

“Sherlock, what a pleasure,” said a voice behind him, the all-too-familiar Irish twinge making the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand up.

He didn’t turn, calmly surveying the moon. “Evening, Jim. How’s the smuggling business going?”

“Well, quite well, thank you for asking. But we both know it’s a bit beyond smuggling now.”

“Yes, I assumed as much. A consulting criminal?”

“Seemed only fair. Can’t let you get all the glory, can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” Sherlock turned, fixing Moriarty with cold, calculating eyes.

“Exactly.” The shorter boy sidled up to Sherlock, peering at the moon. “Nice night, hm?”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly. Excellent for meeting in the highest tower in the castle.”

“More dramatic. But you know all about that.”

Sherlock didn’t dignify that with a response, watching the clouds scuttle across the sky impassively. Moriarty sighed loudly and looked down at his feet.

“You were so interesting, Sherlock. So interesting.”

“‘Were’ being the key word there, I suppose?”

“You got _boring_.”

“Strangely, I’m finding myself not taking offense to that,” the taller boy said honestly. He’d rather than be boring than under Moriarty’s scrutiny, certainly.

Apparently the universe could read his mind, because Jim chose that precise moment to turn and stare at Sherlock with a tiny smirk playing on his lips.

“Why? Because you think I’ll stop playing with you and your little dog?”

“No. Because I think you’ll never find a more interesting opponent anyway,” Sherlock said neutrally, his eyes flicking over Moriarty. Wand in his right pocket, but otherwise unarmed.

He took that the wrong way.

“Like what you see, Sherly?” he asked smoothly, his voice dropping into a seductive murmur.

Sherlock felt goosebumps rise on his skin, and it wasn’t from attraction. Jim began circling him, movements fluid but oddly crooked. Sherlock was strongly reminded of a spider, and forced himself to stay still under the other Slytherin’s stripping gaze.

“Hardly. Robes don’t exactly flatter you, _Jim_ ,” came the curt, mocking reply.

“Want me to take them off, then? Oh wait-” There was that horrible curl of lips that made Sherlock’s stomach twist. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you? Isn’t that precious.”

“Statistically speaking, most males do not have sex until after the age of seventeen.”

“Statistically speaking…” Moriarty lowered his voice to that awful little murmur again, reaching over to straighten the lapels of Sherlock’s robes. “You’re not most males.”

Sherlock watched him as one might watch a cobra, his pale eyes seeming even lighter in the silvery light. “No, but neither are you.”

Moriarty barked out a laugh, short and humorless. “Well played.”

“Thank you.”

His robes were suddenly being yanked forward, bringing him to the other boy’s eye level.

“Enough. This is a warning, got it? Stay out of my way, both of you, or the little Ravenclaw dies.”

“I’m sure. But neither of us wants me to actually stay out of it, so what exactly is the point of this little meeting?”

Moriarty just shook his head, chuckling lowly, and looked down. He snapped his head back up, a gleam of something Sherlock couldn’t identify in his eyes and a grin on his face.

“I will _burn_ you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

Moriarty screwed up his face, looking and sounding weirdly choked up. “I’ll burn the _heart_ out of you.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. His expression remained a mask. “I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

“Oh, but we both know that’s not quite true.” Jim shook his head, smirking.

Verdigris eyes met black ones, the tension in the room spiking as each one held the other’s gaze. Jim looked away first, back at the moon, but it didn’t feel like surrender. It felt like control. Moriarty had this situation and he knew it, turning around to give Sherlock a gloating look.

“We’re just the same. Except I’m not boring.” A sigh from the smaller silhouette against the window. “Not at all like your John. He’s so ordinary, don’t you think?”

Sherlock stayed silent, closing his eyes, unable to come up with any response that wouldn’t lay his whole emotional palette bare for Moriarty to paint his own portrait with.

“You and I, Sherlock. We could be so great together. Nothing could stop us. We could have both worlds under our thumbs. Muggles and wizards, all bowing down to the two greatest intellects of all time.” Short, slender fingers return to Sherlock’s collar, adjusting it, caressing it.

Sherlock caught Moriarty’s wrist as he opened his eyes, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide from the prolonged absence of light.

A heartbeat raced under his thin fingertips as Moriarty’s eyes dilated as well, though his for far different reasons. A sharp tug to his robes and their lips connected, a small wrist still pinched between violinist’s fingers.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried not to be very much disgusted as a tongue swiped over his lips. He pulled away, both of them panting a bit. Sherlock released Jim’s arm and bent to whisper softly next to his ear.

“Caring is not an advantage, Jim.”

And with that he turned, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and walked off. Moriarty said nothing, made no move to go after him, but Sherlock could feel his empty black gaze burning holes in his back.

As soon as he was out of sight he started running. Feet pushing against the ground beneath them, his breath searing his lungs as he ran, faster and faster. Sherlock’s vision blurred and his nose streamed. He wiped away the tears and kept going, letting his legs carry him where they would.

He skidded to a halt in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady. Wheezing, he bent over to catch his breath and wiped his face in a hurry.

“Doxy… Sorry. Doxy fingers,” Sherlock panted, wiping his wild curls out of his eyes. The Fat Lady yawned and swung open.

“Yes, if you say so dear.”

Sherlock stumbled through the portrait hole, into the blissfully empty Gryffindor common room. The few students remaining barely glanced up. One of them, a gangly ginger (one of the Weasleys, he thought absently) sighed and got up from his game of wizard chess. His friend looked disgruntled but didn’t make a move to stop him. He called up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories.

“Watson, your boyfriend’s here!”

“Not my boyfriend!” came the muffled reply before John came down the stairs, looking slightly annoyed.

“Sherlock, what’s…” His face crumpled into an expression of confusion and concern. “Sherlock, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off with a jerk of his head. “Not here. Come on then.”

The Slytherin, feeling very out of place, stumbled up the stairs with John and collapsed on his bed when they reached John’s room. The Gryffindors that shared a room with John looked over curiously, some of them blinking sleep from their eyes, but John waved them off. He pulled the curtains around the bed.

“ _Muffliato_. Okay, tell me what happened.”

Sherlock brought his trembling hands to his face and took another deep breath. “Moriarty…I was stupid, so _stupid_ , I should have realized before, I’m sorry, so sorry, we met in the Astronomy Tower, we were talking and he threatened me and you and Rhianne and I tricked him and then we kissed and then I ran here and I’m sorry John, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he babbled, still shaking like a leaf. John frowned and considered him for a brief moment before gathering Sherlock into his arms.

“Sh, you’re okay now. Hey, no, look at me.”

Sherlock raised his head, looking at John with suddenly clear eyes. John wiped the tears from his friend’s face and smiled.

“Look, see? It’s okay.”

“Yes I know. Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock replied, seeming to have just snapped back to his normal self. John laughed and hugged his bony shoulders again. Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable, but allowed himself to be held. John released him after a few seconds and grinned.

“I’ve drawn my curtains around the bed and cast a silencing charm. People will talk.”

Sherlock managed a small smirk, exhaustion hitting him like a freight train. “They do little else.”

John smiled and pushed his shoulders so he was lying down.

“Not tired.”

“Yes you are, you stubborn git.”

“Sleep is so mundane, John,” Sherlock muttered as his eyelids drooped and let his mind fall into oblivion.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” the Gryffindor said into the silence, rolling onto his side and listening to the steady breathing of his sleeping friend as he drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, y'all, I'm sorry it took me this long to update. I'm not very happy with this chapter, but I hope it's okay so far. The OOC Sherlock is just my take on how he would be when he was younger, so I'm sorry if it's weird... :/ Won't be posting the last chapter for a couple weeks. And as much as I love kudos, please scroll down a bit further and comment. Feedback is super valuable.  
> ~kandyblood


	5. The Plunge

John woke up the next morning to find a cold, Sherlock-shaped impression in his sheets. Feeling a bit disappointed for some reason he couldn’t quite grasp, he swung his legs out of bed and padded sleepily to the bathroom. Someone jostled him as he was putting toothpaste on his brush, causing him to squirt it all over the sink and look up in annoyance.

Billy’s grinning face greeted him, all freckles and weirdly straight teeth.

“Had a good time last night, Watson?”

John ran a tired hand over his face. “Nothing happened, Billy. Sherlock was just…a but shaken. He’s fine now.”

“You seriously mean to tell me I’m supposed to believe that there’s nothing going on between you two?”

John felt a surge of irritation. “Yes, I am expecting you to believe that, because it’s true. I’m relatively sure Sherlock is asexual, and even if he wasn’t he wouldn’t look at me twice. We’re just friends,” he said firmly, putting the brush in his mouth and scrubbing furiously.

Billy’s grin grew wider. “Notice how you didn’t say anything else about yourself, mate.”

“Well, if anyone else in the world cares, I’m not actually gay!” he retorted around a mouthful of toothpaste before spitting it into the sink.

“Yeah, well, Holmes is a bit of an exception, isn’t he?”

John sighed again, deeper this time, as he rinsed his brush. “Okay, yes, he is, but I’m still not…romantically attached to him.”

“You even sound like him!”

“Can you actually know when to stop, for once in your life? Christ, I shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

And with that he turned around and marched out, not even bothering to clean up the toothpaste he had inadvertently smeared all over the sinks.

///

John was a little bit concerned.

Okay, he was a lot concerned.

He hadn’t seen Sherlock in three days, even for the one class (Potions) they had together, and he knew that his friend wouldn’t have eaten or slept in that time. He contemplated grilling one of Sherlock’s informants for the password to the Slytherin common room, but it turned out he didn’t happen to get the opportunity.

John looked up from his breakfast to be greeted be a very grim-looking Sherlock, who sat down next to him.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Sherlock sent him a sharp glance and tossed an opened letter onto John’s plate. “I’ve been thinking.”

“For three bloody days?!” John exclaimed, gingerly nudging the parchment off his food.

“Read it.”

He picked it up a bit suspiciously and let his eyes flick over the surprisingly short message.

_Come and play, Sherly. December 18, midnight at the lake. Bring your pet!_

_~M xxx_

John shivered, feeling a chill of fear run down his spine. “December 18. That’s today, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“We’re not going,” the sandy-haired boy remarked with finality, neatly folding up the letter and storing it back in its envelope.

Sherlock sighed. “I anticipated this. Thinking, remember? And there’s no way we can just _not go._ ”

“Of course we can! He can’t control us. We can’t, alright? We could die. Or worse,” he added gravely.

“Again, I am perfectly aware of this rather blatantly obvious fact. But unless you want Rhianne to die, I recommend taking our chances,” Sherlock said impatiently. “However, I would never ask you to come along as my second unless I thought we could win.”

John froze, his food halfway to his mouth; he knew enough Holmespeak by now to know what Sherlock meant. “Really? You’d put your own life in danger before mine?”

Sherlock gave him another scorching look, though this time there was a hint of appraisal there as well. “Yes, of course. Thought that was obvious. _Do_ try not to be an idiot, John.”

John felt a smile slowly warm his face, the sensation swelling in his stomach as well as he finished his food. He became aware of a tickle of affection for his best friend in the back of his mind and smiled even wider.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing. I suppose we’d better get ready for Moriarty then?”

“Precisely. How do you feel about ditching?”

“Well…”

“Oh god John, if you say anything other than ‘yes, I’d love to ditch class with you, Sherlock…’”

“Shut it you prat, I was just going to say that if we’re ditching then we’d better have a good place to hide.”

Sherlock smirked and rose, offering John a hand. “I know just the place.”

///

John would be telling a stone-cold lie if he said he wasn’t scared. Because he was. As he and Sherlock stood side by side on the bank of the lake, the moonlight soaking the scenery around them in eerie silver light, he could feel his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. A hand suddenly grabbed his own, causing him to snap his head up and look at Sherlock questioningly.

His breath disappeared.

Sherlock was gazing at him with the most open, unguarded expression John had ever seen. There was fear there, yes, but also determination and affection and something else John couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something that made Sherlock look _alive_. With a start, he realized that his friend lived for this. The thrill of proving he was clever, the adrenaline mixed with those little twinges of terror when he put his life in danger.

When Sherlock smiled, ever so slightly, John felt his muscles respond, curving his lips upwards to match the other boy’s. John’s hand was released (it was perfectly steady, he noticed) and the cold mask of indifference snapped back into place.

John was hit with a wave of emotion, blown away by the significance that all of five seconds can have. Sherlock had given a piece of himself to John when he let his emotions through, giving him an enormous amount of trust, and John honestly didn’t know how he could possibly give anything nearly so significant back. He hoped he had helped Sherlock over the years; he had been there when the insufferable idiot needed support, friendship, a wand to guard his back. But somehow it felt inadequate.

“Hello, boys!”

John’s spine chilled and he felt Sherlock tense beside him, a wild animal coiling to strike.

Jim Moriarty stepped out of the shadows of the trees around the lake, hands in his pockets and looking utterly relaxed. A lean, mean-looking boy followed him, a wand hanging loosely from his fingers.

“This is Sebastian Moran, my second. I hope you don’t mind that I brought him; you did get your own, after all,” he said with a syrupy smile, tilting his head towards John.

Sherlock was practically vibrating with tension. “We came, Moriarty. What is it that you wanted?”

“Oh, but surely you’ve figured it out by now.”

“Humor me. I’d like to confirm.”

Jim walked up to Sherlock, tilting his head upwards to look him in the eye. “I did warn you, you know. I told you. I’ll burn the heart out of you.”

As if waiting for the cue, Moriarty’s second leapt into action.

“Expelliarmus!”

John’s wand went flying and he suddenly went rigid, having also been hit with what appeared to be a Full Body-Bind. He saw Sherlock flick a glance towards him and then sigh.

“How boringly predictable of you, Jim. I expected better.”

“Don’t leap to conclusions just yet, darling. I have a whole night planned.” Moriarty began prowling around Sherlock, his movements as cold and liquid as the moonlight that illuminated them. “But you needed a bit of incentive, didn’t you? And Johnny here is the only thing that fit the bill.”

John made a muffled sound of protest. Jim meandered over to him, running a finger along the shorter boy’s cheek. If John could shudder, he would have.

“This one is cute, I have to admit. All good looks and loyalty. Too bad he’s so ordinary.”

Sherlock stayed silent, his eyes practically slicing through the air as he kept his eyes trained on his nemesis.

“And a Gryffindor too. How quaint. Never liked lions; bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

John glared at Moriarty so hard he thought his eyes might fall out of his head.

Sherlock remained silent.

Moriarty laughed, soft and hysterical. _The laugh of a maniac_ , thought Sherlock as his insides went cold.

“Why, Sherlock?”

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that, _dear_ ,” he countered mockingly.

“What possessed you to fall for this?” Jim gestured vaguely at John.

“I haven’t fallen for him,” Sherlock practically spat.

“But you will,” was the soft reply, Moriarty’s steps falling silently as he approached Sherlock .

John’s eyes widened and he tried to convey everything to Sherlock with his irises. _Don’t do it Sherlock don’t do what he says I’m not worth it we’ll probably both die don’t do it you need to live, you’re the genius please don’t do this._

Sherlock’s look was all he needed to see. _Your idiocy is practically oozing from your pores, John. Of course I’ll keep us both safe. Play along._

Jim watched the exchange, an expression of delight contorting his features. “Oh, you two are _adorable!_ Don’t tell me you haven’t shagged yet. No? What a shame, you’ll never get the chance.”

Sherlock thinned his lips into his fake smile, reserved for the general annoying public and turned abruptly back to face him. “I would love to see you try and kill me, Jim. I dare you. Have a go.” He spread his arms patronizingly, as though to give Moriarty a better shot.

Another insane giggle broke the silence following. “Oh, Sherlock. You can’t defeat me. You can’t even _touch_ me.”

“I did touch you.”

“No, you got in my way.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Yes it was.”

“Yeah, okay, it was. But you won’t have much time to enjoy it.”

“No doubt.”

“You can’t be allowed to continue, Sherlock. I thought we had something, and then…” Moriarty gestured vaguely, looking up at the sky and sighing. “Then you turned out to be as ordinary as the rest of them.”

His words drop off into total silence, broken only by the gentle breeze winding through the branches of the trees around them.

“I believe the same can be said about you, _Jim,”_ Sherlock answered in quiet disdain. “Sentiment is such a petty thing to get hung up on, don’t you think?”

“Ah, see? So predictable.”

Sherlock smirked but said nothing else, the sculpted planes of his face washed out and his eyes shining brightly as they stood, playing mind games beyond words, beyond comprehension, as John watched helplessly.

Moriarty sighed and took out his wand. “I think it’s time we brought our little meeting to a close, don’t you?”

“And why would that be? We were just getting to the fun bit.”

“I’m tired, Sherlock. So tired. It’s awfully late, or didn’t you know?”

“Funnily enough, I was informed to be here awfully late by a presumptuous letter I received several days ago.”

“Really? How odd,” John watched a slender arm raise a pale wand, holding it loosely as though he wasn’t about to kill a human with it. “I think I remember seeing someone sending that letter.”

Sherlock smirked slightly, just a twitch in the corner of his mouth. In one quick motion, Moriarty pointed his wand at Sherlock’s chest.

“Avada Ked-”

John’s world slowed down. Everything became sheer panic, a heart-stopping rush of cold white emotion that gripped his chest and refused to let go. Everything he and Sherlock had done together, every word they had exchanged, bickering or otherwise, every case they had solved, every boring class, every complaint, every second of companionable silence and meaningful glances and mad chases and the rare moments when Sherlock truly let John observe instead of merely seeing. Another rush of emotion joined the panic, one of affection and happiness and strength that John never knew he had. All at once, without thinking, letting his mind act on instinct, he felt the energy line up in his chest, building and building until it seemed to explode. At that precise moment, bright light spread through the night as a great silver wolf erupted from thin air and knocked Moriarty over.

Time caught up to itself; the Body-Bind abruptly fell away, and John whipped around and punched Moran straight in the jaw and then aimed a well-placed kick to his stomach. Incapacitated, the taller boy fell to the ground. Again without thought, John found his wand in his hand and his legs rushing over to the tall figure of his best friend. Dread seeped into his bones as he neared him; he had been too late, surely a nearly-completed curse like that would have killed him. He had been too late.

All at once he was kneeling next to Sherlock, taking his wrist, feeling the pulse—and then a flood of relief as the steady beat of life animated the skin under his fingers. A sob sounded from somewhere. He realized it was himself, as he gasped for the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.

“John, Moriarty!”

He was on his feet again, the surroundings a blur. When he focused again he saw the wolf ( _who had done that?_ ) still attacking Moriarty, who was trying to wrestle his wand out from where it was pinned underneath him.

The Slytherin froze as smooth cedar wood met his throat, John standing above him with an expression not unlike an avenging angel.

There was a sudden _crack_ behind him, but John had eyes only for the young man who nearly took Sherlock away from him. Something about him must have looked murderous (because he was, he’d rip that evil bastard’s spleen out through his throat if they’d let him), since he was quickly restrained and bustled away behind a knoll of trees that blocked his view of Moriarty.

Someone was talking to him, low and calm, but he felt curiously light-headed all of a sudden. John didn’t realize his knees were giving out until a pair of strong, familiar arms caught him. He breathed in, the sigh of someone who’s been through a lot in a very short space of time, and smiled at the scent of Sherlock enveloping him.

“John, no, stop, look at me. Don’t lose consciousness,” John heard a deep voice saying as he faded into gray and then sank into black.

///

John didn’t know where he was, but he felt warm and light and happy, despite a very dry mouth and bad case of morning breath. There was a hand gripping his, warm, solid, and reassuring. He lay there for a moment, his eyes closed, smiling softly at the comfortable cocoon that cradled him gently.

Finally he lolled his head to the side, taking in the breathtaking sight of a sleeping Sherlock. It was such a rare specimen that John couldn’t help but stare. (Not to mention how _fucking beautiful_ it was.) Then slowly, slowly, like honey dripping from a spoon, those pale eyelids fluttered open, revealing pale irises and sudden, sharp awareness. Sherlock’s eyes met his, and John suddenly knew that he would rather be dead than lose the boy (man, really) sitting in front of him.

“Sherlock?” His voice was soft, a croak caused by going too long without use.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered, his voice its normal smooth baritone, a small smirk ghosting across his lips.

“Can I brush my teeth?”

There was a moment of silence, a synchronized heartbeat, before they both burst out laughing. They giggled like children, giddy relief and the joy of being alive filling their faces.

“When you two are quite done,” said a cold, oily voice from behind Sherlock. It reminded John bizarrely of rippling grass.

“Mycroft, will you kindly go stick your ugly nose somewhere else? Your presence here is neither required nor appreciated,” Sherlock snapped, laughter dying from his face.

“Unfortunately it is required, as I have been sent to debrief Mr. Watson about the incident that happened yesterday evening.”

“I can do that.”

“No, you can’t,” he answered matter-of-factly before turning to John. “As I’m sure you are aware, Mr. Moriarty was about to cast an Unforgivable Curse at your…friend, here. A very powerful Patronus charm stopped him, seemingly from nowhere, and you were released from the confines of the Full Body-Bind curse when your captor was distracted. You then checked to see that Mr. Holmes was safe, were prompted to take care of his assailant, and did so. Our team then arrived, restrained you, and took you out of sight of the young man, whereupon you shouted abuse at them and struggled rather violently. Then Sherlock here arrived and you quieted down, collapsing and passing out.”

“Okay. I have two questions.”

“Ask away,” Mycroft answered with an insincere smile.

“First, how did you guys get here? Nobody can Apparate onto Hogwarts grounds.”

“Sherlock had warned us beforehand the time at which we would be needed, and we arranged to have the barrier taken down for a very short time in the necessary location.” He shot a sharp look at Sherlock. “We would have much preferred this not to have been such a close shave, but then again Sherlock always loved his puzzles.”

“Alright, second one. Who cast the Patronus?”

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged glances.

“You did.”

“Me?”

“Yes, quite. It was a very powerful piece of magic, both without a wand and without a verbal cue.”

“I cast a corporeal Patronus without a wand or an incantation,” John said slowly, a disbelieving expression settling on his face. “Was that what that wolf was?”

Mycroft nodded and then picked his umbrella up off the floor, nodding shortly at the both of them and walking away.

Sherlock squeezed his fingers as soon as his brother was out of sight.

“That thing you did.”

“I really did that?”

“Yes. It was…good.” Sherlock looked down at him, and for the second time in twenty-four hours (or at least he assumed it was twenty-four) he saw everything Sherlock was thinking and feeling written in his face. Affection, pride, respect, approval, and a hint of fear.

Wait, fear?

John’s brow furrowed and he frowned a bit, questioning, wanting to know why Sherlock was afraid.

“Because of what I’m about to do, which is possibly the stupidest thing I have ever done in my whole life.”

John didn’t miss a beat at Sherlock’s mind-reading. “What’s that?”

And then he was melting into Sherlock, warm lips pressed against his own, his hand coming up to grip tightly at Sherlock’s curls as he desperately brought him closer.

Then all at once Sherlock pulled away, his mouth slightly shiny and his eyes bright as he panted softly into the air between them.

John pulled his face into a deadpan. “Sherlock, I’m not gay.”

He practically saw his friend’s (boyfriend’s?) heart sink. He smirked, the poker face shattering, and yanked Sherlock’s head down again, muttering against his lips.

“But you never even knew that I was bi.”

A soft huff of a chuckle puffed against John’s cheek as their lips met for a bruising kiss.

///

John was a legend when everyone got back to school from Christmas holiday; they had all read about it in the _Daily Prophet_ or heard about it from friends. For once he had outshone Sherlock Holmes, and the castle was practically buzzing about it.

Rhianne had thanked him and Sherlock with friendly kisses to the cheek and a whispered, “Finally, you thick morons,” when no one could hear. She also sent them a large package of what must have been every sweet in both the Wizarding and the Muggle world, which they had an excellent time sampling.

Random students, ones he’d never seen in his life, came up to him and congratulated him or asked him eagerly what had happened. Usually Sherlock was there to intimidate them into leaving him alone (“Sherlock, don’t make them cry!” “Well, how else do you expect them to leave you alone?”); however, there were a surprising number of times when he was caught unawares. Unused to the attention, he had stuttered and stumbled at first, but Sherlock helped him develop a short script to tell the story quickly.

At graduation, they gave him an award (that he really didn’t deserve, honestly, but apparently they were set on it) and the whole school (even the Slytherins) erupted into applause. For him. He wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel good.

But the best thing (not the award, not the positive attention) was Sherlock.

Because anyone who told you that Sherlock was a sociopath was an idiot, including Sherlock himself. He was the best boyfriend (or girlfriend, or whatever) John had ever had, earnest and sweet and unbelievably _himself_. Once, when he told Sherlock this, the taller boy had smirked ruefully and kissed his cheek.

“I’ve been doing those inane little things for ages, but without the kissing. You were too dense to notice.”

John had laughed at that, curling up tighter in the armchair that sat in the corner of his red-and-gold draped bedroom and sipping a cup of (horrible, wonderful) tea Sherlock had made him.

Neither of them had ever been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished! Yay! Just to clear some things up that might not have been totally obvious, and/or don't make sense out of context.  
> 1\. Yes, a corporeal (fully-formed) Patronus Charm can be used to affect humans.  
> 2\. It takes a huge amount of concentration to cast non-verbal spells, and a huge amount of emotion to cast wandless ones. Hence John's ability to do this when he was legitimately afraid for Sherlock's life.  
> 3\. Yes, I was using the Patronus for dramatic effect.  
> 4\. Yes, I was too lazy to do this from Sherlock's point of view.  
> 5\. I think John's Patronus would TOTALLY be a wolf.  
> So! There it is. I might do a short epilogue if y'all want one. Please leave a comment!  
> ~kandyblood


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